


Sleep Alone Tonight

by LanaDelRae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanaDelRae/pseuds/LanaDelRae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With John back at Baker Street following Mary’s admission of shooting Sherlock and their confrontation, the army doctor finds sleep is hard to come by. Sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep Alone Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Because I've started production on a TV show, work is cutting into my writing time. But I wanted to write a little something until the next chapter of War at Home is finished, so here you go! Minor spoilers for HLV.
> 
> Inspired by this lovely piece of fan art by anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com

 

The last light of day was slowly draining from 221B. The days were growing shorter as autumn came and went. Believe it or not, no matter how hard he tried to will it away, holidays would soon be arriving. Granted, it was only October, but things like that seemed to only present themselves faster once you feared their coming.

He had to sleep. He had been thinking far too much for one day. Typically, he would allot himself a certain daily limit dwelling on Mary and her nasty past. The first few weeks after he had found out were a sure sign he was incapable of compartmentalizing emotions and dealing with them one at a time. He was furious, heartbroken, worried, guilty, melancholy, and so much more all at once. Over these last several months he was learning to pull one emotion up at a time and deal with it in as calm a manner as he could. In the beginning, his hand tremors returned, his leg began to seize up unexpectedly, and he developed awful migraines- something entirely new.

He took a deep breath. Ending his bubble of thought as the sunset was almost fitting. He would occupy himself with mindless activities in the meantime. Or perhaps activities that require different quadrants of the brain- the ones that weren’t flooded with Mary, Mary, Mary.

No, stop it, John.

He squeezed his eyes shut. They burned from exhaustion. They were most likely bloodshot. He probably looked like hell, in all honesty.

A shaking hand grasped the handle of his tea mug, which had been resting on a stack of biology textbooks on the occasional table. He lifted the mug to his lips and almost spit the tea back in as the ice cold contents sloshed around his mouth. He had more decency than that. He forced the cold Earl Grey down and glared at his mug in pitiful acceptance. Just his luck, eh?

“Finally realized you’ve been sitting there for two hours, have you?” Sherlock’s voice reverberated off the walls as John heard his swift footfalls from his bedroom into the kitchen.

John snapped around, spilling some of his cold tea on his trousers.

“Oh, Jesus!” He cursed under his breath, set the mug down, and quickly dabbed at his trousers with an old rag hanging from the table. There were some stains on it and John shuddered to think what experiment this had been used for. No matter, he would throw these in the laundry tonight.

Sherlock watched in mild amusement, his left eyebrow slightly raised.

“I haven’t been sitting here for two hours,” John blurted out. “I was only talking to you at two...oh.”

He checked his watch. Indeed, it was 5:30 in the afternoon. He should have guessed as much from the sunset.

_Dammit John, you’re losing your sharpness. Sherlock must be laughing at you._

John looked up hesitantly into his friend’s face. Surprisingly, Sherlock cracked a smile. A small one, barely noticeable to the layman, but John knew better. He knew Sherlock.

“You’re beginning to acquire some of my less desirable traits,” Sherlock mused. “I left that tea there for you after you denied any lunch.”

“I guess I sort of zoned out- hang on, you brought me this tea? Mrs. Hudson wasn’t here earlier?” Sherlock seemed ever so slightly taken aback.

“She’s at her sister’s for the weekend, you don’t remember?” John gaped at the taller man, knowingly opening and closing his mouth a few times, searching for the right words. When they didn’t come, he turned back around in his chair. He exhaled deeply, scrubbing his hands down his face and then up again through his blonde hair. He always hated when Sherlock would pull this shit, delving off into his mind palace for hours, sometimes days on end. And here he was, John Watson, the sane, logical one pulling the same rubbish.

He lifted his gaze when a soft thud sounded to his side. His old tea mug had been removed and a new steaming one replaced it. Sherlock sat opposite in his chair, spindly fingers wrapped around his own mug. He had camomile, John a fresh brew of Earl Grey. He stared back and forth from Sherlock to his tea twice.

“What?” Sherlock’s features were scrunched as the steam swirled up to caress his angular face. “Oh! It’s not laced with anything, really John!”

“No, it’s not that,” he said with drawn out words, a playful grin forming. “ _You_ brought me tea.”

Sherlock’s expressionless face stared him down. He blinked rapidly, obviously confused.

“Yes, I did…” He tilted his head, scanning the doctor. “I thought that was the courteous thing to do. You’re a tea enthusiast, really. Plus, you haven’t eaten all day. I can’t cook, you already know that, but I’ve managed to get by on whipping up a nice cup of tea from time to time. Are you- do you not like-?” John held up a finger, silencing Sherlock.

“Shh, shh,” he swallowed, looking a bit as if he was holding back sickness. “It’s fine, thank you, Sherlock.” With a curt nod he took his mug, disjointedly hoisted himself from his chair, and trudged up the stairs to his room.

Sherlock watched him, lips parted and tea mere inches from his mouth. He was puzzled. He knew freshly brewed tea always brought John round. Perhaps not _his_ tea?

Today was different. He could feel it in the atmosphere of their flat. They had maintained a fairly normal relationship after the reveal at Leinster Gardens. Of course, John had his days but he always managed to break free and remember Sherlock, remember their life. In return, Sherlock tried his very best to not burden John with taking care of him medically. His bullet wound still throbbed and kept him awake the very few times he opted to sleep. He was getting the shakes from his gradual morphine withdrawal. But he mustn't worry John Watson with all that.

Intermittently, when he first discovered Mary’s truth, John would spend weeks at Baker Street. Over the last month however, he mine as well have moved back in. Admittedly, Sherlock was quite pleased with their current living situation. Although he often found himself needing to give John space when he ached to be closer to him. Was this what it was like for John, dealing with Sherlock?

“John!” He croaked, pulling himself out of his own head and into the present. John needed him. In more ways than tea. He nearly spilled his own drink on his perfectly creased black trousers, but caught himself with a smug smile.

“Not today,” He warned the inanimate mug before springing up from his chair and trotting after his doctor.

John heard Sherlock call him, but paid no attention. He decided he really wasn’t in the right mindset at this moment to deal with the detective’s prying. In the safety of his room he quickly stripped down to his boxer briefs. He tossed the tea-stained corduroys behind his back as he rummaged for a new pair- possibly pajamas since he was being such a mopy lump today.

Mid-search however, he froze. He intended the pants to audibly hit the closed bedroom door. After all, that’s how he reminded himself to take down dirty laundry. But there was no soft thud of garment on wood.

“Sherlock, get out!” He wheeled around, too miffed to bother covering himself. True, he was still in his regular shirt/jumper get-up, just without proper pants.

“John, was it something I said?” he asked quietly. John locked eyes with the man. Although half his face was in the shadows of the doorway and the looming dusk, his crystalline orbs still shined through as they always did.

“I’m really not in the mood, Sherlock, please,” he was making a concerted effort to keep his features straight and not burst out laughing with his friend the way they always did when awkward situations like this arose. But the fleeting laughter that was threatening him mere seconds ago dissipated with alarming speed. John squared his shoulders the way Sherlock was so fond of and snatched the pair of pajama bottoms he had been searching for from his bed, quickly slipping each leg in.

Sherlock watched him as if he was analyzing a specimen; taking in the doctor’s muscle separation in his quads and calves before he covered them up again. The strict definition and cuts he formed during his service had not been lost. They still showed, ever so slightly, as he reached certain ways, stood certain ways, and ran certain ways. He was enjoying watching John’s mind turn right now, even if it meant it was turning the wrong way.

John made to pull his jumper off, but decided against it and instead sat on the edge of his bed. It looked as though his body was stiff. He had zero energy to argue with Sherlock Holmes and even less energy to compose himself. He kept his back straight, eyes ahead. Thankfully there was a window in front of him he could pretend to be preoccupied with.

“John?” Sherlock pried again, taking a few tentative steps into his room. “I really can’t imagine how-”

“No, you can’t, can you?” John spat. “You can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to have your entire world go to hell and lose the woman you love. No, not only lose her, find out she’s a bloody assassin!” His eyes were still set on the window. Sherlock’s lips were pursed in concentration, frown stuck on his pale face as he attempted to work with John. He took a few more miniscule steps towards into the room.

He wanted to scold the doctor. Of course he knew what it was like. Not in the literal sense, but the torment of watching Moriarty scout out the ones he loved most and subsequently having to fake his own death was earth-shattering. Especially for someone as emotionally devoid as Sherlock. He watched John Watson, the only human he had felt any lasting connection with, get married and change their dynamic forever. He watched John Watson’s heart get ripped from his chest when he discovered the past 2 ½ years had been an utter lie. So maybe, just maybe he had some inkling of what John was going through.

He was halted by his own fears of rejection, but he had been trying his best to comfort John considering the little experience he had. He began making John tea before today, he just failed to notice. The doctor was slipping into this comatose state more than Sherlock wanted to admit to him. He made sure to stay at Baker Street whenever John seemed to fall into this rut, he needed to be there to watch over him.

John chanced a look at Sherlock, who was as placid as ever. He snorted. What did he expect from the steely facade?

“What? What is it?” Sherlock asked, the uncharacteristic confusion flickering across his stark features. John shook his head.

“Nothing, just nothing,” he opened and closed his hands slowly, as if trying to grasp at something that wasn’t there. “I’ve just- ugh, Jesus Sherlock, you know how hard this is for me, I really don’t feel like-” His sentence was cut short by the weight of a hand on his shoulder; his left shoulder to be exact. Sherlock’s thumb seemed to be tracing the scar tissue around his bullet wound and John’s eyes fluttered for the briefest of moments.

“Then don’t,” Sherlock whispered, keeping his hand on the doctor’s shoulder.

“I appreciate it, Sherlock, but tonight I need to be alone,” he tried not to notice the slowly moving fingers on his scapula.

“It’s not a very fun place to be,” Sherlock lowered himself to sit on the bed next to John, placing his own hands in his lap. The absence of the warm hand on his shoulder was overpowering. John turned to him, scrutinizing the strange behaviors Sherlock was embodying right now. His flatmate returned the gaze, a sad smile playing across his lips.

“Believe me,” he added quietly. John nodded mindlessly, not really sure of what he was agreeing to. Sherlock took the opportunity to continue. “And yet I often find your company has made me less of an abrasive, arrogant bastard; a truly amazing feat.”

John laughed, the first genuine laugh Sherlock had heard in weeks. He smiled in return, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Right, well I’ll leave you to it,” Sherlock mechanically rose off the bed, leaving the room without a second glance.

John wanted to call after him, to apologize. But for what? Stop that, stop guilt-tripping yourself Dr. Watson. Sherlock is simply being Sherlock. No, actually he’s not. On the contrary he’s being very un-Sherlock right now. He stared wistfully at the spot Sherlock had vacated on the bed. He placed a hand on it. Still warm. He bit the inside of his cheek and with a defeated sigh brought his head to his pillow. His horizontal position brought no comfort. His mattress felt like a cardboard box, and his pillow a rough stone.

Yet despite the alarming level of discomfort he was feeling mentally, physically, and emotionally, he laid in his bed for a solid four hours; very awake. He laid there until he couldn’t take it anymore.

The flat was almost entirely dark. Street light filtered in through the window and miscellaneous kitchen lights gave the small space an eerie glow. John looked to his right as he descended the stairs and identified the shadowy silhouette of Sherlock sprawled on the couch. His feet facing away from John, eyes delicately closed and fingers gently steepled under his chin. His hands weren’t as rigid as they would normally be. They were lax, barely keeping their tented form, which signaled to John he was asleep.

What a strange phenomena to actually see Sherlock Holmes sleep. The detective was nearly robotic at times, failing to eat, sleep, or maintain normal human functions. To witness him actually asleep, well, John put his foot back on the bottom step, thinking it best not to disturb him. But he was too fascinated. He watched his chest rise and fall under his aubergine dress shirt. His head was resting comfortably on the arm of the couch, raven curls just touching the tips of his eyebrows.

The corner of John’s mouth lifted involuntarily. He rounded the corner of the couch and gently lowered himself onto the coffee table, facing Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson would have his head if she knew he was using it as a chair.

_‘That’s older than you are, I’ll have you know!’_

But his landlady was hours away, there would be no scolding tonight.

Here he was smiling like a schoolgirl over his best man, his best friend, his caretaker; Sherlock Holmes. His features were no longer intense, just relaxed for once. He noticed a sheet of paper tucked under the detective's arm and gingerly slid it out, careful not to let the crumpling wake him.

Holding it up to the dim street light from the window, he read in Sherlock's familiar scrawl:

 

_John’s Tea Preference_

_Earl Grey- moderate preference, 3-4 times per week_

_Oolong- low preference, 1-2 times per week_

_English Breakfast- high preference (predictable), 5-6 times per week_

_Sugar- NO_

_Cream/milk- “tad,” 1.15-1.75 ML_

_**** _

The list went on for a while, but John did not need to read anymore. He leaned forward, wrapping his rough fingers around Sherlock’s. He immediately responded, eyes shooting open like miniature Earth colored marbles. He did not remove John’s light grasp, but raised an eyebrow to the doctor, clearly bewildered.

“John,” he stated groggily.

“Thank you,” he nodded over to the tea analysis.

“Oh,” Sherlock glanced at it, then back at John. He had noticeably let his fingers slack, draping around John’s.

“You’re supposed to say ‘you’re welcome,’” John teased. Sherlock said nothing, sleep still evident in his eyes and the downturned slope of his lips.

“I was merely trying to...take care of you, I suppose,” he shrugged. “As you have done for me.”

And as if that were some sort of signal to his synapses, John used their clasped hands as an anchor to pull himself onto the couch with Sherlock so he was seated beside him, left arm outstretched over the other man, gripping the side of the couch for support.

Sherlock’s eyes followed every move, observing everything, quite alarmed, but remaining where he was.

“Now it’s my turn to really say thank you,” John whispered, feeling Sherlock’s warm body beneath him. Sherlock’s breathing hitched in his throat. He moved his mouth as if he actually expected words to come out.

“You do not need to-” he began feebly. John silenced him by bringing his right hand to cup Sherlock’s face, letting the tips of his fingers graze through his soft curls.

“I do,” he insisted. “And you’re right, alone is bloody awful.”

“Stay here,” Sherlock breathed. His own body betrayed him as his left arm slid up to the back of John’s head. His fingers likewise gliding through John’s short blonde hair.

_What are you doing? Stop it. What are you doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_

His head whirred, practically screaming. His hand trembled. Damn morphine. Or dopamine. Most likely dopamine. Chemicals associated with pleasure, joy. He let it drop in fear. John frowned, brows knitted together. With careful consideration to Sherlock’s bullet wound, John leaned down closer and brought his other hand from the back of the couch to cradle Sherlock’s face completely.

“I don’t want to affect your wound,” With a pang he reminded himself Mary put that hole in Sherlock.

“You won’t,” he rolled his eyes. “I’ve just taken an extra dosage of morphine,” he added nonchalantly.

“You’re supposed to be weaning yourself off!” John protested, nearly getting up. Sherlock felt the pull away and quickly placed his hand on the back of John’s head once more. Their foreheads knocked together gently.

“Stay here,” he barely moved his lips, their eyes still locked. “Please, John.”

John sighed, bringing Sherlock’s head to the crook of his neck as he maneuvered around the detective’s lanky body. His shorter legs were draped over Sherlock’s and his torso spooned just so to avoid his wound completely. It was actually quite the perfect fit.

John could feel Sherlock’s raised heartbeat vibrate through his own body. The ever-confident Sherlock Holmes was nervous. He was vulnerable. He was everything John needed at the moment. Someone who cared for him unconditionally.

“John,” Sherlock spoke into John’s neck. “I’m sorry about Mary, I don’t think I ever said…”

“It doesn’t matter,” John responded quickly, letting his fingers wander through his friend’s curls.

Sherlock eased up a little. And to John’s utter surprise, he brought both arms around the doctor’s neck, leaving little, if no, space between them.

“Sherlock, I-” he started, but felt a knot in his throat.

“What?” He could practically feel Sherlock’s curiosity despite his face being buried in John’s neck. He suddenly felt exhausted, his eyelids heavy and breathing slowed.

“I’m glad I don’t have to sleep alone tonight.”

“I, as well.”

As he succumbed to sleep, John could swear he felt Sherlock’s lips brush his collar bone. It was more likely a trick of a sleep deprived mind, but a niggling voice in the back of his head really hoped it wasn’t.

 


End file.
